Gotten, the sequel: for life
by anxioussquirrel
Summary: The long-awaited sequel to Gotten; snapshots of important moments from Kurt and Blaine's life together over the years. - Story currently on hiatus, but will be finished
1. Meet the parents

**Author's notes: **_This is a sequel, so if you haven't read _Gotten_, go read it first._

_I'm sorry I made you all wait so long for the sequel – what can I say… it was plot bunny season. But now the journey is starting._

_Let's discuss the plan: this is a WIP, which is unusual for me, but there's a reason: this won't really be a continuous story, but a series of one-shots, kind of snapshots from important moments of Kurt and Blaine's life together. And because of that, I'll only be posting once a week, always on Thursdays. If you know me, you know that I deliver what I promise :) The series has a potential to be long – around 20 installments, maybe? We shall see._

_The general rating is NC-17, but it may vary from chapter to chapter, as well as the genre, although most of them will be quite fluffy. Like _Gotten_, it's written in 1__st__ person, from Blaine's POV._

_Okay, enough talking. Let's start._

* * *

><p><strong>1. MEET THE PARENTS<strong>

I know I shouldn't be anxious. There's nothing to be anxious about, no reason to feel like I do before a very important exam. But I can't help it; it _is_ a very important exam, even if there are no teachers or grades, or required material, and I've graduated a long time ago.

Kurt looks at me with amused eyes every time I start to fidget in my seat on the plane, soothing again and again.

"Blaine, relax. They will love you, they already do, you know that. They'll be happy to see you as my boyfriend."

Right. It's easy for him to say. He's not the one being introduced as a new boyfriend to his family; not today, anyway. And they have no idea, either – Kurt's kept our relationship to himself for the last month, choosing to tell them in person; they don't even know Kurt isn't coming alone. I've supported it, but right now I'm not so sure it was such a good thing. At least if he told them on the phone, they would have time to get used to the idea.

My hands are shaking a little as we sit in the bus terminal in Columbus, waiting for our connection to Lima. Kurt has just decided it's time to let his family know he's bringing company, and as he chooses the number in his phone, I feel like I'm going to puke. It's stupid, I know; I'm not fifteen, for heaven's sake. But I can't help it – Kurt is my future, I can't screw this up; this week has to be perfect. What if I'm not what – or rather, who – they want for Kurt? What if they see me as fit to be his best friend, but not his boyfriend, and his future husband? What if they don't want me to be part of their family? What if - ?

Kurt's voice shakes me out of the spiral of anxiety I'm falling into again.

"Dad, hi! I'm in Columbus, the bus will be here any minute. Or should I say, we're in Columbus – I'm bringing my boyfriend with me, I hope that's okay?"

I can just barely hear Burt's voice; I can't understand the words, but he doesn't sound happy. My stomach clenches, but Kurt doesn't look worried. In fact, he grins.

"No dad, it's not Marcus. I promise, it's someone new. I'm sure you'll love him."

The murmur in the speaker doesn't sound convinced, and Kurt winces a little.

"Yes, I remember I said so about Marcus too. I know. But this, he… he's different. You'll see." A short break, then. "No, good different, Dad. Really. Trust me. Okay, here's our bus. See you soon!"

We take our bags and we're on our way.

* * *

><p>The ride passes way too fast. Before I have any chance to settle my nerves, we're in Lima, only a short walk away from Kurt's house. My legs feel weak; when we turn into his street, I have to stop to catch my breath, which is unreasonably short after such a leisurely stroll. Kurt squeezes my hand encouragingly.<p>

"It will be perfect, Blaine. I promise. I love you, and so will my family."

I breathe deeply, and then we are on the porch and Kurt positions me to the side of the door, so that I'm not immediately noticeable from the entrance, before pushing the ring button. Burt opens the door a heartbeat later, a slightly wary expression on his face, and Kurt gathers him in a tight hug. When they part, Kurt reaches his hand to me and pulls me closer, so that his dad's eyes rest on me now, confused.

"Hi, Blaine, good to see you again, but… Kurt, you said you were bringing…" his eyes brighten suddenly, crinkling in a wide grin. A second later he turns towards the house, calling out. "Carole, come here please; you won't believe it! _Finally_!"

Before I know it, I'm being hugged hard by Kurt's dad. Carole is squealing like an excited teenage girl in the background. Soon, we're all seated at the kitchen table, with coffee and cinnamon rolls, and it feels like I'm already part of this family; like I've been for years – they're so genuinely _happy_ for us. Burt shakes his head at us.

"Finally! I'd almost lost hope that you two would wake up one day and get together. It was just painful, watching you ever since _high school_, mooning over each other and never figuring it out. At least now I can be certain my boy won't get hurt again." He looks at me with earnest eyes. "There's no one I'd rather trust him with."

Kurt beams and kisses my cheek, and I try not to let them see the tears gathering in my eyes. It feels so good to be here like this, accepted and embraced by my lover's family, knowing I have their approval. It fixes some deep part of my heart I didn't realize was broken, where my own family always failed to provide just that – the simple safety of being accepted as I was, without reservations.

Burt grins.

"I think this calls for champagne after dinner, what do you say?"

I can't help but look pointedly at Kurt then. "Actually, there's one more reason for champagne."

Kurt swats my hand, trying to glare, but his effort is somewhat ruined halfway through by a wide smile.

"Oh, okay, there may be some more news I should share. Dad, Carole… I'm going back to school this year. And to the internship."

The cheering and hugs take a long time to fade away.

* * *

><p>That night we lie in Kurt's old bed – there was never any question about us sleeping together. It was obvious to everyone that we will, and I still can't get over how easy and natural it all seems to Kurt's family. The whole gay thing, I mean. It's always shocked me just how different it was from my own home, where I <em>was<em> accepted – well, more like _tolerated_ maybe – for what I was, but it was a visible effort. Here, they don't even think about it. It just is, as natural as the fact that Finn has a fiancée. And it feels wonderful, and feeds my stubborn, perhaps naïve hope that one day the whole world will see it like this. Small changes, one person, one family at a time.

The bed seems smaller than it used to, on those many days we spent here watching movies, reading, talking – even napping sometimes; but it still brings back so many warm, fond memories and emotions. And maybe a few fantasies.

Kurt's thoughts must have gone in the same direction because I hear him chuckling softly, his breath a hot puff against my neck.

"Oh, if this bed could talk…"

I raise my eyebrow, invisible in the dark.

"What would it say?"

"Too much for me not to consider burning it immediately."

"You mean dirty things?" I tease. "Mister Hummel, I'm shocked! Did you have some sort of kinky sex life in high school that I didn't know about, while I was busy pining over you from a distance?"

Kurt laughs, but I can practically feel him blush.

"No, silly. Did you forget how completely inexperienced and baby-penguin-like I used to be? I meant the more pathetic stories – all the times I cried here, the hours spent with sad songs, unhappy and depressed over the bullying and the loneliness, and the hopelessness of being the only out gay teenager in Lima. And all the days – and nights – dreaming about my crushes, oh god… Finn, Sam… Then you, ever since I met you, up until I met Marcus." His voice drifts off and I can't help teasing him some more.

"But you can't tell me it was all innocent, can you? I bet you got off here more than once. Maybe even thinking about me? Doing things to you…" I run my fingers lightly over Kurt's upper arm and he shivers, his cock rapidly hardening against the side of my thigh. Mm, interesting…

"I… I may have? But I was always trying not to, I mean… It seemed creepy and wrong to jerk off to thoughts of you. But sometimes I couldn't help it, you've just always been so _hot_, Blaine…" Kurt's voice is trembling slightly, a defensive note clearly audible there, but the hard pressure against my leg tells its own story. And my body is responding, too; the image of Kurt at 17, 18, 20, lying in this very bed, maybe half naked, his hand on his beautiful cock that I know so well now, trying to suppress his moans as he strokes himself, thinking about me – it's shooting straight to my groin.

I sit up and flick the small bedside lamp on, greedy for the sight of him. I know what I'll see and I'm not disappointed – the bed-messy hair, the eyes dark and sparkling, flush high on his cheeks; my favorite picture in the whole word. God, I love him.

"Show me," I whisper.

"What?" This is new and I can see Kurt's eyes widen even as his breathing accelerates involuntarily. I know it's a lot to ask – even after all this time Marcus still has some remnants of hold on him, still keeps him back. He's never fully comfortable saying what he wants, what he needs, intimately. All the more reason to try this.

"Show me how you did it back then – how you touched yourself. Tell me what you imagined. Please, Kurt."

I can see he's about to argue, but then his eyes catch the sight of the bulge straining my pants and he licks his lips; clearly, it convinces him more than my pleading.

"But… it's silly, I didn't even imagine much, I just… let my thoughts wander and -"

"I don't care, Kurt, _please_, just tell me what you thought about. I just… I did this too, you know? So many nights when I fantasized about you, all through high school and college. And knowing that you thought about me too, back then, it does _things_ to me. So _please_."

The blush on Kurt's face is so hot he's almost glowing, but he nods and lies back comfortably, the comforter kicked down. His hand wanders slowly to the strip of naked skin where his t-shirt has ridden up and he closes his eyes, breathing deep steadying breaths.

"Okay. Usually I would just lie in the dark, trying to sleep when a memory of you would attack me – something you said, the timbre of your voice, your mouth, ugh, Blaine, your _mouth_… Or your eyes, the way you smile and they get all honey-colored, and they crinkle adorably. Or when you touched me sometimes - like, even on this bed - and I knew it didn't mean anything to you, your hand on my knee or my shoulder, or your hugs sometimes – I knew you were just being you, but the shivers I got from that, every time, the way your hand was always so warm, it made me feel hot all over…"

Kurt's hand is pushing the shirt up now, impatient, as he's smoothing it over his chest, breath stuttering when he flicks a nipple with his thumb. I'm mesmerized, I can't stop staring, my cock aching in its cotton prison. Kurt doesn't open his eyes. He keeps speaking, his voice low and quiet, and he probably doesn't even realize that he's started speaking in present tense, deeper in his fantasy now.

"And sometimes, no matter how much I try, the memory won't leave; it settles in my brain, my bones, and grows, and I can't control it, it's safe here in the dark, and nobody knows, nobody will ever know." Kurt is teasing his nipple now, his other hand ghosting over the outline of his cock over the pants, and he gasps. "So I let it come – the images of your hand holding mine, your lips shaped over my name, your hug tighter, longer. But soon I can almost feel your lips on mine, soft and perfect. Then you're kissing my neck," Kurt moves his fingertips over there, the other hand pushing his pajama bottoms down and I bite back a hungry whine when faced with Kurt's cock, hard and heavy against his abdomen. "And I can't help myself, it feels so _good_, it feels like you belong here – your lips, your hand in mine, on my back, my thigh, _everywhere_. And at first it's enough to get off on, just the shape of your perfect lips and the slide of your hand, and you telling me you want me, love me. But soon I want more." Kurt's breath is ragged now and he's swallowing his little moans, biting his lips, trying to be quiet, the way he had to be back then, his hand working over his cock, fast and rough. "I imagine your hand sliding higher up my thigh until it's right there, over my pants. Sometimes you kiss my stomach or even take off my shirt and just… touch. And then, later, in college, there are nights when I'm so desperate and hot and wanting, and I just _need_ you, and then you're right there, pulling off my pants… _oh god_… and touching… touching me right there, stroking me… _Blaine, yes, please_… And sometimes, really rarely, you just… _mmm… fuck, so close, so_… Just touch me with your lips… _please, Blaine, yes_… your tongue, just… _uhhh_… just a kiss and…"

I can't stop myself. Without a word, I lean in and kiss the tip of Kurt's cock, swipe my tongue around the head just once. The movements of his hand are fast and chaotic and a second later he's coming all over my tongue, the excess spilling over my lips, trickling down my chin as I swallow eagerly and Kurt arches in a soundless cry, biting on his knuckles.

I'm almost on the edge myself, just from watching him, listening to him speak, and I'm ready to just finish myself off when Kurt's hand sneaks over and starts stroking me, steady and sure. His eyes are open, though still dazed, glorious green peeking out from the grey, and he whispers.

"Of course, all this never came even close to reality. You're so much more, so much better than I've ever imagined, Blaine, and I never want anyone else to touch me like this, ever. I only want you. I only _love _you, forever."

Under his skillful fingers I fall over the edge within seconds, happy and safe in his arms, in this bed, this room.

* * *

><p>"We could have had it all, you know? We could have been happy together for years now, if we'd, I don't know… had more courage? Opened our eyes earlier? Gotten drunk and made out, and confessed out feelings?"<p>

"Yeah, well, you tried that last one, except you ended up making out with Rachel Berry," Kurt chuckles fondly, the memory old enough not to sting anymore.

I groan. The shame is still there. "Please don't remind me."

We're on our way to my parents' house, overnight bags in the trunk of Burt's borrowed car. Kurt stretches in the passenger's seat and sighs contentedly.

"Well, we could have, I guess. We could have gotten together back in Dalton and been high school sweethearts. We would have gone to prom together, and maybe when I returned to McKinley, you could have followed me, to be together or to face your own demons. And we could both have been in New Directions, and had a great time, and won Nationals… But maybe it had to be like this, you know? Maybe we wouldn't have been ready then? Would have ended breaking up and never getting back together? Maybe we had to grow up to really appreciate each other?" He shrugs and I feel a warm wave of affection roll over me. "Anyway, I'm happy for what we have now, and I intend to do everything I can to make it last as long as we live."

We're almost there and I feel a slight pang of unease as I turn into the well-known driveway. My parents know I'll be coming with my new boyfriend, but just like Burt and Carole three days ago, they don't know who it is. I don't expect them to care – they didn't really with Danny, and we were together for years – but still, the uncomfortable feeling is there. They're my family. I want them to be happy for me. Plus, I never really know what to expect from them when it comes to my life choices. But they've known Kurt for years, and liked him well enough, I think. It should be fine.

* * *

><p>It's anything <em>but<em> fine, of course.

I can see my mother stiffen and my father frown when I introduce Kurt as my boyfriend. I know that he notices it too – it would be obvious even if he wasn't long used to measuring and weighing people's reactions, an instinct to survive. It goes downhill from there.

"So how long have you two been together?" My mom's pouring wine for dinner. Her fake smile is so stiff it looks like it's about to crumble off.

Kurt smiles back and I can see he's trying, for my sake more than anyone else's.

"Just over a month."

"Oh, so it's nothing serious then?" It sounds very much like relief and the first pang of anger pushes through confusion in my head.

"Mom!" She raises her eyebrows, feigning innocence, and I make a point of laying my hand on Kurt's, right on the perfect white tablecloth between us. "Actually, it _is_ serious. We've known each other so long that we don't need much time to know that this is it for us."

Her face grows serious. "Oh."

My dad butts in then, shrugging.

"Oh well, you said the same about that Danny boy. You were almost ready to marry him, we thought, and look where it ended. I don't think we have to worry about you getting into anything serious anytime soon."

I can feel my jaw drop. "_Worry_?"

Kurt is silent beside me, his face set into a neutrally pleasant expression, and they don't know how much it costs him to keep his calm now, but I do. He touches the napkin delicately to his lips, stands up from the table with a kind smile – as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't just been offended by his future parents-in-law.

"Please excuse me, I'll be right back."

The second he disappears behind a corner and the bathroom door squeak open, then closed, I explode.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You _know_ Kurt, you've known him forever. I thought you liked him, for god's sake!"

They exchange glances and it's my mom who speaks.

"We _do_ quite like him, honey – as your friend. I know you care about him, and he about you. But a boyfriend? He's just-"

"He's just too obvious, Blaine." My father doesn't even try to speak quietly and I cringe, knowing that Kurt probably hears every word. Anger bubbles in my chest and burns in my throat and for a second I feel like I ate hot coals, not my mother's specialty onion soup. Dad doesn't look moved. "Danny could have easily passed as straight. If you weren't standing too close, you could pass as just friends. Kurt… he registers as gay the second anyone looks; you can't hide it. Going anywhere with him, you'll be immediately suspected to be gay too, and this kind of information goes around fast, son. Soon everyone will know, at your work, the places you frequent, your apartment building, everywhere. It may make it harder for you to be promoted, to meet and befriend the right people-"

It takes a couple of seconds to understand, but when the initial shock passes, I interrupt him roughly, anger pouring out freely.

"You think I want to _hide_ it? You think I will pretend I'm straight, that this beautiful, amazing man I live with isn't my boyfriend, and one day my fiancé, my _husband_? Father of my children?"

My mom exclaims weakly. "Now Blaine, no need to go so far-" but I don't care.

"Do you seriously think that we don't hold hands in the streets, don't dance in clubs together, don't kiss in public? We do. It's New York, Dad. And I am gay, whether you like it or not – and I can see that you're still not over it." I register movement out of the corner of my eye and look up to see Kurt standing in the dining room entrance, white as a sheet. Not losing steam, I finish angrily. "And it's good to know what you really think now. Thank you. I think we'll go now. I'll call you some time later, when we get back home."

I get up, almost knocking the chair over. As I take Kurt's hand and we go out the door, to the car where our bags are still waiting in the trunk, one thing hurts more than anything else.

My parents don't even try to stop us.

* * *

><p>It feels strange when we say our goodbyes at the airport a few days later. On the one hand, I feel happy, accepted and loved – Burt and Carole made sure we <em>both <em>felt at home, and I couldn't ask for a better welcome to the family. They treated me as if I already was their son, like they were absolutely certain I'm here to stay, even though we haven't said a word about our plans for the future together. Finn dropped by for a day and showed just the same enthusiasm, honestly happy for us both. It was wonderful.

On the other hand, though, I feel a little like I've just been orphaned. No matter how hard I try, I can't swallow the bitter taste the visit in my family home has left in my mouth. I've apologized to Kurt over and over, until he told me to shut up and kissed me senseless, and promised he doesn't care about their opinion, just mine. But I know it's not true, I know he cares – if not for his own sake, then for mine.

My parents haven't even called me since we stormed out of their house and it hurts that they won't even _try_ to be happy for me. I gained a new family, but I moved even farther from my own. And I'm still too overwhelmed to process it fully.

As we bid our last goodbyes and walk to the gate, Kurt's hand warm and sure in mine is the only thing I'm certain of, the only anchor in the world that had tilted a little on its axis these past few days. I hold on tight, never wanting to let go.


	2. Challenges

**2. CHALLENGES**

I thought it would be easy.

I was sure the most difficult part of Kurt's going back to school would be convincing him to actually take the money, to allow me to pay for it. So when that part was done, I was nothing but relieved – giddy in fact – happily anticipating September and already imagining his excited chatter and bright eyes when he came home from classes every day.

What was I thinking?

I never stopped to consider the fact that we weren't twenty anymore, or living in a dorm, and our lives didn't revolve around college. I didn't think about the distance from our apartment to the campus, or worry about Kurt's insistence on still working and helping with the bills. I didn't calculate the amount of time it would all take him, or how little of it would remain for just him, or for us.

Life starts to show me pretty soon.

The first weeks – well, months really – are the hardest. After the initial week of adjusting and tweaking his schedule, Kurt comes to bed late on Friday night, naked and smelling of green tea and strawberries, cuddles up under my arm and casually informs me that between classes, the internship and work at a coffeeshop near campus, there's no way for him to be home before ten during the week, and on weekends he's going to be mostly busy too, trying to fit in as many hours of work as possible. Basically, it all comes down to the fact that for the next nine months I'm going to have a very tired, very overworked boyfriend on my hands.

It sounds crazy, and I'm certain there must be some mistake there in his calculations, that something can be done about it, some changes made – how is he supposed to fit homework, studying, sleep, not to mention any _living, _all between 10 pm and 7 am on most days? Soon enough life proves his predictions just about right, though. Well, not entirely. More often than not the evening commute takes longer and Kurt comes home around eleven, after the last shift at the coffeehouse, only to grab something to eat and work on homework and designs until 1 or 2 am.

It's an insane schedule and I can't imagine him living at this pace until May. We could survive on one paycheck if we tried, but Kurt, ever the stubborn one, refuses to quit his job and focus solely on his education for now. But as weeks go by, I can see him wilting and withering; the dark circles under his eyes forever growing, the amount of sleep he's getting never enough. He's getting thinner, too, and I suspect his assurances that he eats dinner or at least lunch somewhere in the meantime are just words to keep me from worrying too much.

Kurt loves what he's doing; it never ceases to fascinate him – the internship, the classes, designing. But even his superpowers have limits that he refuses to acknowledge. By the end of November he's a shadow of himself – too thin, too tired, either absent or asleep at all times. It can't go on like this, but my arguments and pleading don't work – Kurt always says he can manage, that he's always managed somehow. And that's true. He has. But he's never had it quite so hard before.

Thankfully, I'm not the only one noticing this.

One Tuesday afternoon, a week before Thanksgiving, Kurt comes home impossibly early – at seven, distraught. It takes a while and some effort – dinner and a glass of wine, and a shower, to get him to talk. We're sitting on the sofa, not touching, and even if I hadn't already noticed he's upset, I'd know now by the way he's distancing himself, retreating into his shell.

"Angela – she's the one responsible for all the internships – came back after a month in Montreal today, and the first thing she did was come and check up on me and Vivi. I think I screwed up. She made me go home and come back on Friday, only for a meeting with her."

"Why would think you screwed up?"

Kurt shakes his head, his tone bitter. "She was looking through my sketches, the proposals for the autumn collection. She said they were good, but my lines seemed a bit shaky. And I acted like an idiot and told her that was because I was exhausted. What was I thinking?"

He lets his head fall to the back of the sofa. I frown, confused. "So you told her the truth. What's wrong with that?"

His head snaps back up and he looks at me in disbelief. "Blaine, don't you get it? Now she thinks I can't handle it, and I can! I should have just told her I had the flu when I worked on them or something."

"But what did she say?"

"Well, she asked me all sorts of questions about my schedule and college, and work, and then she got this look – I don't know, it was hard to decipher – and she made me go home and rest, and not return before Friday. I was so shocked I just did what she said, I didn't even go to work. I should go now, it's still early."

I'm not a dominating man, in general. Our relationship, as fresh as it is, is very much about being partners and equals. But it's just one of the times where I have to take control without asking for it.

"You'll do no such thing. You're exhausted and upset, you're going right to bed and rest for once. That's what Angela told you to do."

"But Blaine – "

Of course he argues. But I can play dirty when I have to – and now I really feel like I do. I can apologize to him later.

He shuts up when I kiss him, hard and deep, and soon he's a whimpering, begging mess as I go down on him, slowly but surely hitting all his buttons I've had time to discover in the months we've been boyfriends. And I'm very much having fun myself – frankly, it's the most action we've had since Kurt started classes, and sleeping every night with a beautiful, very hot man who happens to prefer sleeping naked, and resisting waking him up to have sex – it's torture. But he needs any minute of sleep he can get, and I respect that. So now… Well, it's been years since I last came in my pants.

Kurt comes down from his orgasm right into sleep, just like I hoped he would, and doesn't even stir as I pull off his jeans and carry him to bed.

I promptly take his phone and call the coffeehouse and one of his college friends to tell them that Kurt's down with a stomach bug and will have to stay home for a day or two. They understand, of course, wishing he'll get better soon, and I regret nothing – even as I call my own boss to tell him that _I_ am sick. I know that if I leave him to it, Kurt will go right back to school and work in the morning, and he _really_ needs a bit of rest. He'll probably hate me for it, but it's nothing two days of pampering won't fix.

Feeling like I've achieved what I wanted, I undress and go to the bedroom to enjoy sleeping with my boyfriend for more than the four or five hours I get lately. I make sure to switch off all the alarms, too.

I wake up at 9 with Kurt still soundly asleep with his head on my shoulder, so I just stay here, enjoying a peaceful morning, the kind of which we haven't had since August. It feels divine – lazy and warm, with a gorgeous man all relaxed in my arms.

I feel the moment he wakes up – his body tenses even before his eyes snap open, panicky at the sight of bright daylight and cold sun streaming through the window. It's always dark when he gets up lately. I just hold him tighter when he tries to sit up.

"Nope, we have a stomach bug, no going out and infecting other people." Kurt looks at me like I'm insane and I grin. "No, really. I already called everywhere to let them know. But don't worry, we'll get better by Friday."

He squirms. "But I have to – " and I just hold tight.

"Nope. No arguments. You need to rest, even if I have to force you to. No worrying either, not until Friday. Doctor's orders."

Finally, he relaxes, admitting his defeat. "I hate you."

"I know. And I love you too. So, today and tomorrow we're being lazy, eating properly, watching movies, napping and having sex. Any arguments?"

"Well, if I'm clearly a prisoner, I may as well enjoy it…" With that, he leans in for a kiss, his hand moving in a direction that I very much approve of.

* * *

><p>Two days later Kurt is definitely better rested and well-fed, and we're both satisfied in other ways, too – maybe even oversatisfied, judging by my sore muscles. But it was <em>so<em> worth it, and Kurt's relaxed smile as he kissed me goodbye in the morning told me I was forgiven for my sneaky intervention.

I know he's going to talk to Angela at three, and I glance at the phone every 30 seconds as I await the news. I hope he doesn't lose the internship – it means a lot to him and he says he's learning so much there, things he'd never learn just from classes. Not to mention that a prestigious internship like this is basically a ticket to a career in fashion.

Kurt calls close to four, sounding fervent and dazed, and I can't guess if it's really good or really bad, at first.

"Blaine, I'll be home in an hour or so. I'll make dinner. Are you coming at the usual time?"

"Yes, but… Come on, what did Angela say?"

"Well, for starters, she says I've got a great boyfriend if he forced me to rest."

"Of course you do, but I already know that. What about your internship?"

Kurt's voice gets high and breathless. "She told me to quit my job, right away. She says I'm too good to waste my talent and I will if I don't take care of myself, so… She did the unprecedented and got me a paid internship here instead. She cleared it all with her superiors already, I don't have to work anywhere else and can focus on designing."

I laugh out loud, causing my coworkers' heads to turn around. I don't care.

"Kurt, that's amazing!"

"I know!" The joy in his voice lights up my heart. "And, wait… They're taking two of my designs for the autumn line!"

I want to whoop and jump. I've always known Kurt would go up like a star, but actually seeing it happen, step by step, is such a treat.

"Oh my god, Kurt, it's _perfect_! I'm buying champagne on the way home."

"You do that. Okay, I have to run to the coffeehouse to hand in my resignation. See you later. I love you!"

* * *

><p>The paid internship means that Kurt has evenings and weekends free now, so he's not so exhausted anymore and we even have time to just hang out sometimes. We spend Thanksgiving at home, sharing the festive meal with Kurt's family by Skype. There's good food and music, and talking about everything we're grateful for in the last year, which is a lot and has everything to do with each other's presence in our lives.<p>

We spend Christmas break in Lima, and it's bright, crowded and cheerful, and everything I've always wanted from Christmas and never really got. Two days later there's Finn and May's wedding and as I look at Kurt in his tux, the only thing I can think of, my heart bursting with love, is _We're next. _

The only dark cloud over all the love and happiness and acceptance is the fact that the breach between me and my parents is still there. We've been speaking on the phone once a month or even less, simple _Everything's fine_s, and now I can't even go and wish them Merry Christmas in person, because they went on a cruise (_Well, since you're not coming home, we might as well spend Christmas somewhere else_, my mother said, and why did it hurt? I should be used to it by now).

* * *

><p>We return to New York rested and filled with the warm bliss that only family can provide, and the new year starts well. We're refreshed and rejuvenated, and so in love it makes my heart sing and tremble. Two weeks away from the everyday hurdle really did us good.<p>

It still feels like a honeymoon a month later, but there's something else there, something new, like a grain of sand, invisible and hardly noticeable until its delicate scratch starts to hurt and blister. At first I'm not even sure what's bothering me and it takes an effort to stop and wonder. Kurt's more cheerful and affectionate than ever; he's busy and preoccupied with college and the internship, but every moment he can afford to spend with me is memorable and ringing with joy. But with time, there are less and less of these moments as he spends more and more time with his college friends.

It's nothing unusual or suspicious – they form a studying group and go out for coffee or drinks sometimes. It's what people do in college, I know it; I _remember_ it. It's perfectly normal and understandable – they're graduating in months; there are assignments and tests to study for, and final hovering in the future; there are team projects and designs to discuss. I shouldn't worry about it, really. I try to ignore it, to tell myself I'm silly, but it grows and pesters in the back of my mind.

Near the end of February, Kurt mentions casually that he's going to the club with his college group on Friday and asks if I want to join them. I don't really know why I say _no _then – a bout of jealousy? Hurt pride, because Friday nights should be for us? Whatever the reason, I refuse, and even if I regret it long before Friday evening, I stubbornly grind my teeth and don't say anything. What bugs me most is the fact that Kurt doesn't realize that I'm upset. He has a great time, comes home tipsy early on Saturday morning, handsy and giggly, and I can't say _no_ to his dancing fingers and heated caresses.

Soon enough, the Friday night club outings become as much of a ritual for them as Sunday study groups that sometimes take all day, and after-class coffees. Kurt keeps asking if I want to come at first, but when I refuse again and again, he stops, and I lose my chance to try. But it just feels wrong, trying to incorporate myself in this group I don't have anything in common with, except Kurt.

He's so deep in all this – learning new things, meeting people, fulfilling his dreams – that he doesn't have time to stop and reflect about _us_. I'm the one left behind working the job that I hate and coming home to an empty apartment, and having too much time on my hands to worry and grow more and more bitter. It's not even that I'm jealous – well, maybe a bit; mostly it's the feeling that for a moment I had it all, the love of my life, the certainty about our future together, and now I feel like it's all slipping away somehow. My certainty and sense of safety grow thinner and the doubts and fears start to flourish freely.

Because honestly, who am I to try and contain Kurt? Just a 26 year old man who let his dreams slip away; hung them up to maybe revisit in the future and went into the dreariness of banking instead. What can I give him that's better than the fashion world he's so naturally a part of?

I know he loves me; I know he was sure he wanted to be with me, forever. But dreams and desires change as new possibilities open. Kurt never had much chance to try romance before – innocent flirting and playful banter, bathing in the attention of men who appreciate and adore him for what and who he is. Now that he has that – and I know he does, he's mentioned admirers to me, blushing and laughing it off – maybe he's realizing that he can have more than me. Maybe he feels like he's settling for me when there are so many more alluring possibilities available.

At first it's just a passing thought, but as weeks go by and it settles deeper in my mind when I see Kurt growing in confidence and conscious sexiness, it's slowly becoming an obsession – hidden deeply, almost shamefully within the darker part of my heart, growing. He'll leave me, I'm sure he will, sooner or later he'll say it's the end and I'll be alone again, with no love and no family, and I don't know if I can survive that. I don't say anything, of course, in fear of speeding up his decision, making the axe drop sooner rather than later. I'll take whatever he gives me, and for as long as he does.

And he gives me plenty, when he's actually here with me. His full attention, hours of cuddling on the sofa while reading or watching something, or talking; breakfast in bed sometimes, and long make-out sessions I've never thought could still be so good when we can do so much more; fantastic sex and lovely little doodles on post-it notes when he needs to remind me of something or just wants to say _I love you_. It would be perfect if not for the fear that keeps pricking under my skin like tiny cactus needles.

One day in March Kurt comes home smelling subtly of another man's cologne, and even though he explains, laughing, that they had a lecture about scents complementing styles and were around the samples for two hours, it causes something to wake up and roar in my chest. It feels like a stranger's hands have been on _my Kurt_, and suddenly it's not fear that courses in my blood, but fire. I won't give up without a fight; I won't lay down and wait for someone to take him away. He's _mine_.

It feels so strange and uncharacteristic that I spend a few days analyzing this thought, exploring it like a science project. I've never been a possessive man; not about my things and certainly not about people who were important to me. I'd rather let go or share than risk anger and confrontations.

Not this time.

That Friday I watch Kurt get dressed to the nines before he goes out to the club, his jeans seemingly even more skintight than ever to my jealous eyes, and his red, short-sleeved shirt perfectly fitting and accentuating his toned torso and arms in a way that makes my mouth water. The thought of him dancing with other men dressed like this, being close to them, is shooting sparks of adrenaline into my blood and I can hardly suppress an angry, animalistic growl as the possessive feeling flares again.

He kisses me before going out and I spend the next hour pacing the apartment like a caged animal before I give up and change into one of my rarely used club outfits myself. I know which club they're in, it's always the same place, and once I make the decision, there's no hesitation in my stride or my mind.

The club is crowded when I get there, the pulsing lights and artificial smoke obscuring details, but I see Kurt as soon as I settle on a high stool by the bar and order whisky. He's dancing in a group of girls and boys, his movements fluid, mesmerizing. He doesn't notice me, so I take my time watching, sipping the whisky.

"Forget it." A tall young guy with a blond ponytail perches on the stool to my left, cradling his beer.

"Excuse me?"

"His name is Kurt; and forget it, he's taken. You're not the only one who'd gladly tap that ass." His tongue is loose in a way that hints that it's nowhere near his first beer. I raise my eyebrow, suppressing the animal in my chest, ready to pounce. "Yeah, no such luck. He has a boyfriend. No one has ever seen him, but Kurt's always _Blaine this_ and _Blaine that_, you'd think that the sun shines out of the guy's ass. I don't know what the lucky bastard did to get Kurt, but damn, I hope he appreciates what he has." He looks me up and down then, nods appreciatively. "But you're not bad yourself, care to dance?"

I shake my head with a smile and swallow the rest of my whisky, the warmth flooding my chest only partially its fault. "No, thanks."

I'm off my stool the next instant; striding purposefully toward the group on the dance floor. Kurt's back is to me, so he jumps a little when I mold myself against him, dancing so close it's almost grinding. His friends are staring, open-mouthed, but Kurt relaxes the second he glances back at me, grinning with delight, and keeps dancing, the movement of his hips more hypnotizing than ever, sending sparks up my spine. The song ends and Kurt throws himself in my arms. Before I know it, we're kissing, hungry and wild, and people around are whistling and whooping, but I don't care. He's mine._ Mine_. Let everyone know that. When we break apart after a long while, Kurt's eyes are sparkling.

"I can't believe you came. That's the best surprise ever! Come on, let's get something to drink." He remembers his friends then, still standing around us, and grins. "Oh, this is Blaine. My boyfriend. But you've probably guessed." It seems to be enough for them to accept me cheerfully.

We navigate the crowd back to the bar, Kurt's hand never letting go of mine. The guy with a ponytail is still sitting there with his empty beer bottle, his mouth hanging open unattractively. Kurt nudges his leg as he's settling on the stool. "Honestly, Frank, pick your jaw up off the floor; it's filthy."

I grin and offer my hand, "Blaine Anderson, hi!", and the man almost falls off his stool, muttering something and disappearing in the dancing mass quickly. Laughing, I tell Kurt about out earlier conversation, making him giggle.

We return to the dance floor soon and most of the night passes in a blur of pounding music, sweaty, dance-hot bodies and laughter. I don't remember when I last had such a good time in a club, being a part of a larger group. Kurt's friends are nice and slightly crazy in a fascinating, spontaneous way. Drinks flow and alcohol sings in my blood; not enough to render me drunk, just pleasantly tipsy.

It's well after midnight and we're dancing to some slow song, fused together into our private little space, when Kurt asks curiously. "What made you come tonight? I thought you weren't interested in coming with me."

I may blush, admitting to the truth, but my face is flushed from dancing and alcohol anyway, and it's dark. "I was jealous."

I expect him to be angry for doubting him – god knows I am, myself – but his voice is high in this breathless way I know so well when he asks, "You were?"

"God yes, the thought of anyone but myself being this close to you… it was killing me. I had to come, see you, touch you… make sure you're mine."

Kurt _moans_ into my ear and as I tighten my hold on him, I realize that he's hard against my hip. My breath stutters as my body reacts.

"Kurt, let's go home, now."

"Yes." His answer is immediate and we barely say goodbye to everyone before he's pulling me by the hand outside and to one of the cabs that stand there. It's only with heroic efforts of will that I can restrain myself from groping my boyfriend on the way home, but as soon as the door of our apartment close behind us, I'm pressing him into the hall wall, bruising his lips with hungry kisses, sucking on the skin of his neck, marking. Kurt whines helplessly, hips grinding against mine.

"_Mine_, Kurt. Only mine. Nobody else can touch you like this."

"Yours, always." It's exactly what I need to hear and I growl in agreement, making sure everyone knows this, writing love into his skin with my lips and tongue until he's moaning and begging for more. When I manage to break away from the irresistible taste of his skin, the marks are there, loud and clear, and the newly discovered possessive animal in my chest purrs, satisfied. But there are much too many layers between us and I can't wait to see him naked and sprawled on the bed, all the perfect skin for me to claim and worship, so I say, my voice rough and thick.

"Undress for me."

Kurt's eyes grow even darker at the command and he whispers "Yes" before rushing to strip piece after piece while I do the same with mine. Once we're both naked, I pull him to the bedroom, but before he can even get to the bed, I'm kissing him again, the scent of heated, slightly sweaty skin overwhelming, every touch and brush against him so very _right_.

Kurt arches into me, seeking more contact wherever he can get it, his voice breaking as he whispers.

"Show me, Blaine, show me that I'm yours. I want to know how much you want me."

I growl deep in my throat, and that's new, this wild side, but I don't mind as long as we're both alright with it. I push Kurt onto the bed, gently, but surely.

"Mine, only mine, forever mine," I repeat between hard, claiming kisses and heated caresses, say it over and over again right into Kurt's fair smooth skin, its perfection marred by pink and purple marks here and there.

I take my time before sliding down to Kurt's hips and taking him in in one smooth motion as he arches and cries out. After years of being denied this, Kurt is impossibly responsive in oral sex, falling apart at the first touch of my lips, and I love it – giving this to him, teasing and prolonging the pleasure for him until he comes with an intensity that astounds me every single time.

Not this time though. I wait till he's writhing and babbling, begging, his hand tangled painfully tight in my hair, and then I pull away. He makes a small, pained sound, but it turns into a moan after he hears what I want.

"You're mine, but I'm yours, too. Will you take me, Kurt? I want you to take me, and I want you _bare_, is that all right?" My voice is trembling slightly with the raw need that makes me ask for it. "I've never done it this way before, I want you to be the only one –"

And he does. He shows me I'm his just like he's mine, that we belong to each other and with each other. The intensity of his caresses, the perfect slide of bare skin in me, the sensation of being filled, claimed, marked in the deepest way as he tumbles over the edge a moment before me – it's different somehow, and one of a kind. It feels like a promise, a vow.

Later, when we're lying together after the shower, Kurt kisses my shoulder and asks, "You really were jealous?"

"Yeah. All those guys, they _get_ you – they're into fashion too and have so much in common with you, and I thought maybe you felt like you hadn't considered all your options before getting together with me, and –" I'm rambling at this point, weeks of suppressed anxiety flowing out, and he interrupts me, laughing.

"Silly, you're _it_ for me. I don't want anyone else, nor do I look for them. I don't need to. I have you and it's perfect. _We're_ perfect. Don't ever doubt it."

And I don't, not anymore. Because he's right and I feel it now, too.

And there are other people who love Kurt, who like him or adore him, appreciate his talent and need his skills. They are there around us when he graduates in May and I'm standing there with his family, so proud of him that my face hurts from so much beaming. They are there a week later when Kurt gets a job offer from the company he's been interning in, and months later, when head-hunters start to go after him with offers from other companies after his first small line gets out and is enthusiastically received.

He will always be surrounded by people and intense emotions, he will know drama and travel places – this is the life he chose, going into the world of fashion. But none of it will be a danger to what we have. Because I know now, and I trust it with all my heart – he's mine, and I'm his, for life.


	3. Will you?

**3. "WILL YOU…?"**

Knowing that you want to marry a person since the first moment you become a couple doesn't actually make it easier to propose. Interestingly enough, neither does being almost certain that they won't say _No_.

Ask me how I know.

I want to propose to Kurt. I want to marry Kurt, to be his husband, to wake up every day for the rest of our lives and see his ethereally beautiful face on the pillow beside me, and the wedding band on his finger. I want us to have the same name. I want to be his family, to father children together, to be another son for his parents. I want it all, and I was ready to propose to him a week into being his boyfriend.

I didn't, of course – after the parody of relationship he'd had with Marcus I wanted to give him everything, all the little steps and pleasures he'd missed out on and should have had all along. I spent the summer wooing him, even though we were already together. I took him out on dates; cozy little restaurants where we held hands in candlelight and fed each other desserts, and played footsie under the tables; the movies where I would spend half the time tracing my fingers over the soft skin of Kurt's hand and wrist – featherlight, slow, teasing, until he was shivering and squirming just from the touch of my fingertips. There were nighttime walks and stargazing, and finding all those lovely little places to call ours; there was singing together and serenading each other.

We'd come home and kiss for hours, and spend evenings talking and making out, exploring. It didn't matter that we'd known each other for years, or that we'd already had sex. It was all new and delicious, unhurried and perfect. More often than not it didn't even lead to sex of any kind – it was all the pleasure of intimacy, anticipation, just being together. I loved seeing Kurt realize and understand that I don't expect sex every time we kiss or undress – that it can, and should, be just like this in a healthy relationship where both partners are equals and have their say. It felt like a personal victory that by the end of August Kurt no longer hesitated before suggesting something or saying what he needed.

And then Hurricane College hit, and our safe little world got crazy, busy and stressed. It hasn't been the best time we could hope for. But we've survived – each of us separately and together as a couple – through all of the challenges so far. And now it's April, spring has arrived full force and I'm pretty sure we'll be fine, after all. And suddenly, my dream of proposing to Kurt, here and now, as soon as possible, is back. I love this man so much it scares me sometimes, and I just want to be his husband.

But it's not that easy.

Kurt deserves the best the world can offer; and I selfishly hope that my proposal will be the only one he ever gets. So it has to be absolutely special – well thought-out and perfectly executed, beautiful and one of a kind. A day he'll remember forever, preferably with happy tears in his eyes. A grand romantic gesture.

Which, basically, means that I'm screwed. I can pull off dramatic flair and grand gestures – I used to do it pretty regularly before I became a boring banker; things that were spontaneous and fun, and a little crazy – but whenever I try to mix it up in romance, it ends up in ways I don't even want to remember. Try asking any of my Dalton Glee club friends about the Jeremiah thing – they still like to make fun of me for that one. I just suck at the whole _great romance_ thing, at least when I try; the harder I try, the worse it is, actually. And how am I supposed not to try hard in _this_ case?

At least I didn't start by buying the ring, this time. That was the first thing I did when I decided to propose to Danny; I'd had the little red box for over half a year before it was time to take it out, hidden behind my banking and management books on a tight-packed bookshelf. In the end, I didn't even show it to Danny – his rejection was too swift for me to even finish the song, get off the stage and reach into my pocket. Later, in a completely unromantic gesture, I sold the ring – I couldn't return it and didn't want to ever see it again. Of course, I could have thrown it away with a flourish, somewhere over water, perhaps, but I decided that those kinds of dramatic gestures are for people with a bit bigger budgets.

God, I'm going to remember that train wreck of a proposal over and over again when I'm planning what to do now, aren't I? _Great_.

Anyway – no ring yet; not until I have everything planned. Then I'll go choose it, and will probably end up with a major problem, because well, it's Kurt. Perfect, fashion-conscious, going-to-be-famous Kurt. It won't be easy. Should I go with gold? White gold perhaps? Platinum should match anything, but wouldn't it be overkill? My head spins just from thinking about it.

Do I really want to do this?

_Yes_, yes I do – I want to marry Kurt, and if I have to come up with something extravagant and original and elaborate to be able to, I'll gladly do it.

* * *

><p>My first idea is taking Kurt and his family out to dinner the day of Kurt's graduation. I could ask the waiter to put the ring in a glass of wine or water, or maybe in a dessert… Um, no. Definitely not. Besides, it's <em>his<em> day, celebrating his huge achievement, something he worked so hard for. I wouldn't dare to take even a fraction of his limelight.

So I start planning things for our first anniversary instead – yes, it's been almost a year since that day I tried to chase a plane for Kurt, or close enough. Proposing at home, over a quiet dinner by ourselves, with candles and wine and soft music, and a night of lovemaking afterward sounds lovely to me, but it wouldn't be special enough. Maybe we could get away somewhere, a week in a cottage by a lake, perhaps? We could go for a long walk in the moonlight, and at a particularly charming spot I'd drop to my knee and ask Kurt to be mine forever.

Yes. It sounds right.

I'm in the process of looking for the suitable place to go when Kurt gets a job offer from the company he's been interning with, and suddenly all getaway plans get pushed into the unforeseeable future as he throws himself into designing. We end up celebrating our anniversary with a very late dinner at home, a bottle of champagne that makes Kurt silly, giggly and adorable, and absolutely fantastic sex. Which is amazing, of course, but doesn't actually get us engaged.

And I don't know why, but suddenly I'm _obsessed_ with proposing. Kurt is busy enough not to notice, but not a day passes by when I don't sift through ideas – debating, wondering, rejecting more and more of them.

I think about writing him a song and performing it in Central Park when he goes through it on his way to or from work – but it's too similar to the way I chose with Danny, so I can't do it.

I consider putting the question on a movie screen or writing it on the sky, but apparently that's cliché and besides, I don't want big audience – not because I'm afraid of rejection, not really, but it's _our _moment. I don't want it tainted by strangers' reactions.

There's an idea of taking Kurt up for a balloon ride and proposing when we're far above ground and all the everyday things, but to be honest, I don't like heights – and I don't want to be thinking about my own anxiety while asking one of the most important questions in my life.

Summer weeks go by quickly and my obsession is slowly driving me crazy. I need to make a decision. I need to have a plan and regain control over my own mind, stop thinking about places and scenarios, rings and flowers and music, and the "perfect thing to say". I mean, I lose precious moments Kurt finds for us among the chaos of working on his first designs to be included in his company's catalogue – I'm with him, but my mind drifts away to potential ways to ask him to marry me. How silly is that?

In September, I realize how desperate I am when I begin contemplating making a public proposal during the first professional fashion show where a few of Kurt's designs will be featured. I reject the idea immediately, of course – for a dozen reasons, not the least of which is that he'd kill me – but the mere fact that it even popped into my head makes me realize how bad it is. Really, I should just give it up, forget it. I mean, there's no hurry – we've been together barely over a year and he's not going to suddenly disappear. I can do it on Christmas. Or on Valentine's Day. Okay, no, _that_ would be cliché. Hell, I can wait until next summer. Who said Kurt even _wants_ to get engaged after barely a year with me?

Try convincing my brain though.

It's two weeks later, during the fashion show itself, when the perfect idea hits me right between the eyes. One of the models has a silver half-mask on, to complement her evening dress, and suddenly I know.

_Venice_.

It's suitably crazy, over-the-top romantic and definitely memorable. I'll talk to Kurt's boss in secret, on Monday. I'll make sure I can steal him away for a week to Italy – he should have a bit more time now that the line is finished. While there, I'll take him on a gondola ride and ask him to become my husband.

Yes, that's _it_. I'll need to work out all the details, but I have a feeling it's going to be amazing. My heart suddenly much lighter, my mind able to focus after being distracted for so long, I have a great time for the rest of the show and at the after-show party. I shower Kurt with compliments – I'm not the only one, of course – and affection, so proud to have such a talented, wonderful, beautiful boyfriend.

Kurt blooms under all the attention, beaming and a little overwhelmed, but in his element. He's flushed, his eyes sparkling, and I love him so much it aches. When we leave the party around midnight, I can barely keep my hands away from him in the cab home. I'm not the only one affected by the atmosphere of the evening, either – Kurt's all over me the second we're home and out of tux jackets.

We stumble through a shower together, hands and lips never leaving each other's skin, and soon I'm rocking into him in our bed, passion and love and tenderness tangled together in an inseparable knot. He's keening my name – mine, no one else's – and when he cries out and comes between us, the thought that soon he'll be my fiancé makes my orgasm rip through me with a force that leaves me weak and trembling, gasping for breath.

* * *

><p>We sleep like babies the next morning – there are no alarms to drag us out of bed at ungodly hours, nowhere to hurry to, no stress, with Kurt's show over and my obsession silenced. We cuddle and kiss in bed when we finally wake up slowly, too sleep-warm and lazy to do much more, until hunger and nature make us move. Brunch at a tiny French bakery two blocks away is heavenly and afterwards the warm, sunny October day – probably one of the last ones like this before the harsh New York winter – tempts us to spend time outside. So we do – it's Saturday after all, we have all day to ourselves, with no plans or obligations, and it feels like forever since we could just relax like this.<p>

We go for a long, leisurely walk in the nearby park, just enjoying the beautiful day and each other's company, talking about everything and nothing, sweet memories and Christmas plans. I take my time etching it all in my memory, putting all the minute, precious details into my mental scrapbook to keep there forever – the crunching of leaves under our feet, the smell of autumn, the slight chill in the air and Kurt's warm hand in mine, sparks in his eyes as he smiles at me. My heart aches with all the love I feel for him and it's one of those rare moments when I can honestly say that I'm perfectly happy. And when Kurt's lips touch mine, I couldn't wish for anything to make this day more perfect.

We end up playing tag on our way back through the park, after Kurt initiates a tickle fight, so when we finally get home in the late afternoon, we're both breathless and flushed, giggling like silly teenagers, and it feels wonderful. Kurt digs up my old high school playlist and we dance around the tiny kitchen, making dinner together and singing so loud that the neighbors must hate us now, if they didn't before.

There's pasta for dinner, and light Italian wine, and later I have to – _have to _– dance with Kurt when _Come What May_ comes up. We're so close, the heat of Kurt's body seeping into my skin, my very bones, his every move causing ripples of desire spread like circles on the water. Soon we're kissing and Kurt's hands wander across my back, to my sides, and before I know it, he's on his knees and I'm reaching to unbutton my own pants, suddenly unable to wait a second longer, pleading escaping my mouth in a litany of "Yes, yes, Kurt, please _yes_".

An amused snort shakes me out of the temporary haze. When I look down, Kurt's grin widens even more, until he dissolves into a fit of giggles. He composes himself quickly, but a mischievous smile remains on his lips.

"Is that an answer to the question I haven't even asked yet?"

I'm confused and a bit affronted for being somehow left out on a joke, but then a tiny, black satin box appears in Kurt's hand and I forget to breathe. He flips the box open expertly. There are two simple silver bands inside and they're perfect, and I can barely wait till Kurt finishes the question – "You're the love of my life, I want to be with you forever. Will you marry me?" – until I'm pulling him up and into a kiss, whispering _yes _and _yes_ and _yes_.

Much later, when the silver bands are already warm from our skin and our _forevers_ whispered and kissed into every inch of each other's bodies, when we've decided to wait until tomorrow to tell anyone about the engagement and are lying blissed out and sated in each other's arms, I tell Kurt the story of my planning. His eyes go soft and he kisses me tenderly, as I try to explain.

"I wanted it to be perfect and memorable for you. I thought you'd want something special."

He smiles with so much love that I feel like swooning.

"It would have been, no matter how you'd have asked, silly, just because it's you. I don't care about dramatic gestures, I grew out of it a long time ago. But I'm glad I got to propose to you instead. And it _was_ memorable, don't you think? Today was perfect and special, and everything I could dream of." I hum in agreement. I couldn't have planned it better, no matter how much I tried. Kurt giggles like a teenager again. "Although I think we'll need to censor the story a little when we tell it to family, don't you think?"

I try pouting, but I'm too tired and happy to pull it off. And he's right, anyway. I wiggle closer into my fiancé's embrace instead, and drift off.


	4. Showtime

**4. SHOWTIME**

Whenever Kurt and I dream and talk about our future careers, one thing is always certain: it won't be easy. It takes years – many years, often – to get a chance, get discovered, appreciated, not to mention known in your field. Both fashion and music are highly competitive, cutthroat industries, but we're both persistent and determined. We know we can do it – no matter how long it takes – but we have to be realistic. So the plan is simple: Kurt's career goes first – finishing school, getting wherever he can with the internship, then trying to get his designs noticed. Maybe by thirty, he'll be able to earn a living at some fashion house, on his way to making his name known in the business. And even if he doesn't, yet, and he's still interning or stuck being some kind of assistant, I'll have the money from my trust fund then, so I'll be able to leave banking behind and focus on my music.

The plan seems perfect.

Except it doesn't happen that way at all. And it's not a bad thing – not at all; it just takes us both by surprise.

The fashion world embraces and appreciates Kurt at lightning speed. It doesn't _happen_, not in real life, it should be impossible – and yet here he is: young, fresh out of his last year of college after the break, and just where he was supposed to be all along. If I hadn't seen it myself, I'd never believe he's the same man who sat in my kitchen, lost and shattered, less than three years ago – there's no sign of that hopelessness in him now.

It's September, almost a year after our engagement, and I've just gotten home from the bank. I'm tired and hungry, but one look at Kurt tells me that removing my shoes can wait. He stands before me, barely containing his excitement, ready to explode with some news, so I just put down my bag, ready to listen.

"Okay. Spill before you burst with it."

"Remember the club outfits I was playing with last month?" He actually bounces a little, clearly unable to stop himself.

I remember the designs – they were unique, a missing link between urban chic and club glamour. Kurt got the idea when he saw a group of girls changing from their business suits into more fun outfits in the coat room of the club we went to one night.

The clothes Kurt sketched looked toned down and classy – until you opened a few hidden buttons or zippers, or removed the outer layer; then they became _glamour_ and classy, with splashes of color and teasingly located slits, lace and nets.

"I remember. I thought they were for fun."

"They were, but Meg saw them, and now they want me to make a whole line of it. A _line_, Blaine. With my _name_ on it, to be included in the January show. And if it succeeds, I'll be promoted to a regular designer, with collections of my own!"

I squeal. Literally. Well, it's not every day that one's fiancé gets his big break, right? I hug him and laugh, so happy for him that I forget about my exhaustion and the bad day immediately. We go out for dinner that night, to that overpriced but excellent French restaurant that we've been promising ourselves to visit once we had a good occasion to celebrate. The food is delicious, the wine tastes like heaven and we spend the evening dreaming aloud, hopeful and happy, and return home to lose ourselves in each other for hours.

* * *

><p>The three months before the show pass in a flurry of activity, with Kurt in constant inspiration mode, always planning, drawing, coming up with corrections and new ideas. I can see how happy it makes him – he's literally sparking with it, glowing from the inside, and it makes me feel such a wave of affection every time I see it that he has no problem convincing me to be one of his models for the show.<p>

Now, as I sit in front of a mirror with a make-up girl carefully tracing my eyes with black kohl, I can't help wondering what I was thinking. I've never been up on a runway in my life, and the rest of the guys and girls are professional models. What if I trip and fall in front of the hundreds of people out there? What if I look like a fool and make Kurt ashamed of me? Hardly anyone knows I'm his fiancé, just the people from his company, but that's more than bad enough. My nerves grow until the make-up girl tells me to stop fidgeting or I'll have glitter all over my face.

Kurt appears a moment later, black high-waist pants laced at the back and a white short-sleeved shirt accentuating his chest and shoulders in a mouth-watering way, a smudge of pale blue glitter across his kohl-painted eyes striking against his perfect skin, and suddenly I'm calmer. I remember now. I'm doing this for _him_; because it was important to Kurt to have me here rather than on the other side, among the audience.

The girl pronounces me ready and reminds me not to touch my face before she moves on to the last model, and I slip off the stool. Kurt takes in my appearance and nods appreciatively.

"Perfect. You look amazing. Can I take you somewhere private and ravish you now? Maybe it would calm my nerves."

I take his hand, ice cold like it always is when he's stressed, and squeeze it reassuringly. "You're nervous?"

"I'm _terrified_. What if the line is bad? What if nobody likes it? What if – "

"Hey, no. Remember what Meg told you? The line is sensational, and all your designs for the company so far were bestsellers. It's going to be a huge success, I'm sure of it."

He breathes deep and manages a weak smile before someone runs in to herd me with the rest of the models. It's show time.

* * *

><p>The show goes well. I don't trip or lose my place, I manage to strut confidently like Kurt taught me, and my sultry look must be on, judging by the reactions of most of the females in the first rows – well, unless they're all lesbians and salivating over the girl out there with me. I go through the three outfits I'm presenting – Kurt kept me in black and red, the glitter smudged across my eyes and the tiny details in the outfits golden – and then it's over. The last two couples of models prepare to go out there, one in black combined with aqua, the other – blue with silver, and I go to the back room, looking for Kurt.<p>

He's waiting for me by the make-up table, looking horrified – and not the stage fright horrified, either. He grabs my hand as soon as I come in, and I notice that he's shaking.

"Blaine, oh god, he's here. Marcus is here. I can't go out there, I can't – "

_Marcus_?All my long-harbored anger at that bastard is suddenly back with a vengeance. No fucking way! He stole four years of Kurt's life and now he's trying to ruin his first show for him? Over my dead body. Kurt's supposed to go out there in a few minutes, to be introduced to the crowd as the company's new designer, and he's a mess. I put my hands on Kurt's shoulders, grounding him, look him in the eyes with all the love I feel.

"Hey, hey, listen to me. Marcus is _no one_, he means _nothing_. He has no power over you. You're strong and amazing, and it's your big night, and you're already a better designer than he'll ever be. And I love you, Kurt. I love you, and we're together, and we're going to be married in four months. Marcus doesn't mean anything. You're free of him."

I can feel him relaxing, his breathing slowing down as he raises his head high.

"You're right. Will you go out there with me?"

"What?" My eyes must be like saucers, or at least they feel that way, but there's no time to protest as the announcer's voice flows from outside the curtain.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please give your warm welcome to our newest and youngest designer, and creator of this fantastic line, Kurt Hummel."

There's a thundering applause from the crowd and Kurt's pulling me by the hand, and the next thing I know I'm back on the runway, walking hand in hand with Kurt, who's smiling triumphantly. I stay a bit behind him as we both bow at the end of the runway, leaving him standing tall and proud in the spotlight, and when I straighten, I see _him – _Marcus, right there in the second row. He looks a bit worse for wear, but mostly the same, and I can clearly see the moment he recognizes me – he frowns, mouth opening in surprise. And then it doesn't really matter, because Kurt is turning and looking at me with love-filled eyes and whispering _Thank you_, and a minute later we're back behind the curtains and he's falling into my arms, ecstatic.

"They liked it! They did, right?"

"They loved it, Kurt. I told you they would, I knew it! So, are you ready to embrace your well-deserved spot among great designers?"

He grins. "I was born ready."

* * *

><p>By the time I change into my own clothes and we both wash off the make-up, it's time for the after-show banquet. It's crowded but classy, and everyone's eager to meet the new talent of the company and congratulate him. I stick to Kurt's side, happy to remain in his shadow, proud and beaming at all the praise he deserves so much. It's almost midnight by the time we can finally sit down by ourselves. Not for long, though.<p>

A voice from the past that I'd prefer never to hear again sounds over my head and the next instant Marcus sits down between us, not asking for permission. Seriously, who invited this guy here? Since he moved to try his luck in Paris, he's basically been forgotten in the fashion world – I know, I've been keeping tabs on him.

He ignores me completely, directing his full attention – and his wide, toothy smile – at Kurt.

"Well well well, congratulations, my pretty thing." His words are slightly slurred, betraying the amount of alcohol he must have consumed by now. "I've always known you'd go places. Now that I'm back, I could take you under my wing again, you know – I'm sure I could make a star out of you."

There's so much _wrong_ with what Marcus is saying and the way he's saying it that I tense on the spot. But I bite my tongue to stay silent – it's Kurt's moment, his confrontation, and he needs to do it by himself, _for_ himself. Unless I see a sign that he needs help, I'll leave the talking to him.

In the end, Kurt doesn't even do much talking – his bitch face and the patented Kurt Hummel Death Glare are almost enough, even if Marcus is way too drunk to appreciate subtleties right now..

"No, thank you, I'm not interested."

Marcus just smiles wider, which shouldn't be possible without his face splitting in two.

"Oh come on, princess, don't play hard to get. Are you still mad about my moving to Paris? I'm sorry, I was wrong to leave you. I've missed you all this time. Come on – let me take you to dinner."

Seriously, how can anyone can be as stupid – or naïve – as Marcus? Kurt rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't rattle.

"I'm not interested in anything to do with you. And I'm neither single nor in desperate need of a job, but even if I were either of those things, you'd be my last choice."

Marcus deigns to give me a cool look for the first time since he sat down. He arches his carefully waxed eyebrow at Kurt.

"So, I see you settled for your back-up boy, after all?"

I have to grind my teeth and clench my fists under the table to stop myself from reacting, but Kurt's icy tone is more than enough.

"Careful, that's my fiancé you're talking about. Which you really shouldn't do. I believe it's time for you to leave, or at least get the fuck away from me, since I want nothing to do with you, ever again."

Kurt's eyes are flashing angrily. He's flushed and holding himself royally straight, and even Marcus in his drunken blindness can't help but notice the unshaken authority in his voice. He gets to his feet, swaying only lightly.

"Fine, fine. Whatever. If you think that this _boy_ can ever satisfy you – "

And Kurt bursts out laughing. His bright, melodious laughter raises over the mutter of the crowd like music, as if he'd just heard the best joke in a long time. He's still laughing when Marcus shrugs, confused, and makes his way back to the bar. Tears are streaming down Kurt's cheeks and he can't stop until he's exhausted, gasping and clutching at his stomach, slightly hysterical.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later I notice Marcus making his way to the exit, considerably more unsteady on his feet. Kurt is engrossed in a conversation with Meg and no matter how I try, I can't stop myself. To be honest, I don't try <em>that<em> hard, either. I excuse myself and follow Marcus outside, closing the door behind me. The street is dark and empty, and it's cold, but I don't care, anger heating up the blood in my veins. I call out after Marcus and he turns, only to give me an ugly smirk.

It's quickly wiped from his face as I punch him square in the jaw with all the pent-up hatred I've been harboring all those years. My hand hurts like a bitch, but the satisfaction of seeing him on his ass in a puddle of slush works like a wonderful painkiller. I turn around and calmly return to the banquet.

* * *

><p>Kurt is disappointed in me. Really, <em>very <em>disappointed. I know this because he tells me, in a very strict voice, and repeats it several times over the next month while my hand is healing.

It's a good thing, too – that he tells me. Because I'd never know otherwise, with the way he dotes on me, providing food and drinks, making sure I don't use my right hand for anything that could delay the healing of the cracked bones. And I mean – anything, since I'm right-handed.

"Blaine, for god's sake, you're a musician, I can't let you ruin your hand just because you're horny, can I? Come on, let me help you out."

He must love me, I think.


End file.
